The Hamster Wheel
by virtualailee
Summary: Hail HYDRA! Tony Stark woke up in a cell, his body atrophied, and his last memory was of Carol Danvers blasting a hole through him. Scattered bits and pieces that he'd figure out eventually. Something in him was convinced that the Steve Rogers he knew and loved was long gone, but he couldn't remember why. Friendless, weakened, and hapless, how much more is left of Tony for Steve to
1. Chapter 1

Day 0

Kobik did something weird yesterday. Something she thought heroic. She said, she was done marinating in the anguish that is Steve Rogers' heart, and she couldn't bear to watch him lay waste to this good earth anymore. She promised to fix the root of the problem. Fix Steve's heart. And boy, did she fix it. When she became whole again after Steve merged the final shard of the Cosmic Cube inside his chest, the first thing she did was to restore _his_ consciousness into _his_ body.

He wanted to be a real boy again. His wish came true! And that was all he could remember. He remembered Kobik's apparition floating towards him, her incorporeal hand coming for his forehead… and before _that_ … well.

Let's just say, he didn't forget Civil War take two this time.

Still. Didn't make a lick of sense. Why would Kobik care about what _he_ wanted? Steve couldn't have wanted this, could he? Kobik wanted to fix Steve, so she must've thought that his resurrection would relieve Steve's… what, grief? – that he would stop lashing out on the world. Nah, that was not the Steve he knew. His Steve wouldn't hurt a fly, unless said fly buzzed "Hail HYDRA!" then God help it, righteous fury shall rain upon it and its maggots.

Why would he even think Steve in the same breath as HYDRA? It didn't taste right on his tongue, but his core – something deeply rooted in his consciousness – was convinced that the Steve he knew and loved had been gone. So confusing. So _frustrating_! There must be for a reason for his coming back. He was… he was certainly back. In his meatsuit. Flesh and blood. And the human body needs oxygen – God –

Tony gasped and jerked upright from the bed, his eyes bulging from the sockets. Somewhat bloodshot, to be honest – maybe they were that way when they put him under. He hadn't been sleeping well since the War started. How long exactly was that? It crept upon them so stealthily that one Monday morning _BAM!_ his friends started dropping like flies. It ended just as abruptly. Hell, so abruptly he didn't see it coming. There was Carol and fire and pain – so much pain –

He choked and sputtered saliva into his fist. He had to relearn how to breathe, so _easy does it_ , come on…

Where in pluperfect fuck was this place anyway? His heaving subsiding, he sat straighter on the bed and peeled the blanket from his lap. Motion sensors activated two rows of recessed lighting above him, and he found himself in the middle of a spartanly decorated room. It was just him, the bed – bolted to the floor, by the way – and a door. He tried the door – who the fuck wouldn't – but the moment he put his weight on one leg, he collapsed spectacularly onto the carpeted floor. He had no strength in his bones, he realised, and panic surged up his spine. He tried to lift himself up, hands grappling the side of the bed, and _up –_

He flopped around some more, limbs rubbery and useless. He had been asleep for a long, long time… long enough that his muscles had atrophied. Not severely, but noticeably so. Bad enough that he couldn't stand.

Fuck it. He _had_ to get to the door.

He let the bed go, and started crawling. One forearm ahead, _pull,_ another forearm ahead, _pull_ – like a garden snail with a trail of legs. Carpet burn aside, he managed to cross the lengths with little ado, and… he needed to catch his breath. The upper-half of his body slumped against the door as he huffed like a train running on steam.

Who was the smartass who decided to put him under induced coma? And for what felt like a millennium at that! In a month or two, a week mayhap – he could've been gone for good. The human body was not made to last this long this way. Damn it, he had contingencies. He had SOPs to follow if he were to fall in battle. Countlessof experiments performed judiciously on his body to make it more resilient. Meaning, there was a proper way of rebooting himself, dammit, and _this_ wasn't it. If only he'd trusted someone enough with the SOPs –

He did. He trusted Steve Rogers, as he always had.

Finding a spurt of energy in his arm, he reached for the knob won't give no matter how hard he jiggled it, threw his weight at it.

This was a _cell_. He wasn't wearing an orange jumpsuit, but this flimsy pyjamas might as well be. The thread count was abysmal, and the cotton scuffed his bedsores. But, it was either this or strutting about naked, so he sucked his thumb and endured. There was no window, no clock to tell the time. He could lose his mind in the solitude.

Or maybe this was Hell. His afterlife. Doomed to spend the rest of eternity an invalid with only himself for company. His scratchy screams of "Anyone? Hello?" his hellfire and brimstone. Then, his breathing came in too fast, his vision blurred, and he grounded himself to the cool surface of the door against his back. This sucked balls. This sucked _major_ balls. He stared at the empty bed before him, and wished to be lying on it.

Maybe later. He had forever after all. He curled up on the floor, hugged his knees and cried into the cotton of his pants.


	2. Chapter 2

Day 1

When he woke up, he kept his goddam eyes close and willed away the damned sensation of awareness, of consciousness. He wanted to _not be_. To not exist. The Buddhist calls it the ultimate goal. Nirvana isn't about goofing around with seventy-two virgins – been there, done that by the way – and a happily-ever-after. No desires lead to no suffering. A state of just being. He wanted that now. Certainly beat being holed up in God knows where in a body so weak he couldn't climb back into bed. It sapped his lifeforce just tugging the pillow and blanket onto the floor. So, that was where he slept. He ached in places where he was pressed up against hard surfaces. When he sat up, the blankets rolled off his shoulders and something shifted in his peripheral view. He turned –

"Fucking hell –"

The room was as sparse, with the addition of one man squatting some three yards away from him. He knew that face anywhere. The name _Steve Rogers_ spilled from his mouth so carelessly, and he tried to crawl to Steve, but his stupid, _stupid_ pins-and-needles wouldn't let him.

He had so many questions.

"What is this place?" he croaked first. "Who did this, Steve? Are you OK?"

Steve watched him impassively. He didn't budge from his spot.

"What?" Tony felt his temper fraying near the edges. "I know it's an empty room. Talk about the paintwork or something."

"What do you remember, Tony?"

"I remember I was dead." He gave up. He sat huddled against the leg of the bed, and panted. The only courteous thing that a super-soldier in his prime could do when faced with a bed-ridden, life-long buddy who was hitting four-oh soon was to come the heck closer, and that was when the bottom of Tony's stomach plummet. There was not an ounce of recognition in the depths of Steve's familiar blue eyes. Only dispassion, and mild curiosity. Like one would have when studying a strange animal caught from the wild.

Steve clasped his knees, and stood up slowly. Tony backed up against the bed. His instincts dictated it. "You're a Skrull?"

"… No."

"An LMD? You're not him."

"I am Steve Rogers."

"No, you're _not_. I know him all _his_ life." The life after serving his tenure as Capsicle, that is. He could read Steve's mind from a freaking _sneeze_ and the vibes this impostor gave off was anything but. "What have you done to him?"

"You are a miracle, Tony," Steve replied instead, and he paced the room, still a safe distance away from Tony. "I put you back together because I knew you would wish it. Death still frightens you." Tony's grip on his pillow tightened, and he was _this close_ to chucking it at Steve's face. "Once again, you defied the odds and Mother Nature itself with your science and cunning. You just had to… be here. I must admit, this makes my victory a lot more… satisfying," and Steve's lips curled into a twisted smirk, so unkind it marred his handsome features.

"So, what? Did Carol resign or something? No more pre-empting crimes, guilty before proven innocent bullshit –"

"I told you a story, Tony. Long time ago, when you were fast asleep. As I stood by your coffin," and another spurt of chill shot up Tony's back, "I explained to you why I had to do what I did. Why _HYDRA's triumph_ is the only thing worth fighting for. Worth _dying_ for. I sympathise with the passing of our great friends, I do, but it was necessary."

Fuck this shit. The door was ajar. He could see the light from the corridor beaming in. He threw his blanket aside, and started his long crawl towards freedom. This fake, _deranged_ Steve could go screw itself.

"The difference between you and me, Tony, is to what bloody end we'd uphold the institutions we pledge our life and loyalty to. You always learn to exist within its limitations. You told me, to not do that was _criminal arrogance_. So, you become… in some ways, something smaller. Less free. You play ball with it, you tinker – understand the corruption to its deepest core before you upend it all to hell. You reinvent the rules. Change paradigms. Answer to no one," Steve let off a snide chuckle, "not even Death."

Tony's forearms were chaffing, and the slow crawl on rough carpet was agony with each push forward. His flesh burned, and wetness prickled by the rim of his eyes.

"The hypocrisy of it! And the genius! By some perverse ways, you've opened my eyes. Despite the overhauls you and I have lived through, the system _is still_ corrupted top to bottom. It's not SHIELD. It's not the Avengers. It's all of you, Tony. Every single of you superheroes. Your petty squabbles and thirst for power let the people down. Your _astronomical ego!_ The same mistakes repeated over."

Tony stretched one arm for the door. So fucking _close –_

"Even then, there is still one other thing I admire of you, Tony."

His fingertips scrabbled at the door, but thick, strong arms suddenly hooked under him. His body was lifted cleanly off the ground, and he was in Steve's embrace, pressed up against a strong chest as Steve carried him away. Effortless. He clutched at Steve's broad shoulders for purchase, and the tears finally gave way. He looked up at Steve's face, fearful, but Steve's attention was on the bed he was walking towards.

"The whole Avenging shenanigans hadn't been futile. I learned that it's not always about avoiding catastrophe or destruction. We should capitalise on these adversities to build ourselves something stronger. If only you were there, Tony, sitting amongst the honoured guests at my inauguration as SHIELD's Director. I imagined you would've at least been impressed."

And Steve set Tony back on the mattress, with tenderness and care an old friend would afford. Tony knew this body. The same strength in the bones and muscle, the military precision of his gait – this was Steve Rogers. He was _not_ mistaken!

"You're the most brilliant visionary I have ever worked with, and I've lived a long life, Tony. But, even with all your intelligence and influence on the goings of this world, look around. Does the planet look saved?"

Steve pried Tony's fingers from his shoulders with absurd ease, and bent down to retrieve the nest of blanket and pillow on the floor. He gave them a generous dusting, and eased first the pillow under Tony's head.

"It's not about you. It's not even about me." Steve spread the blanket over Tony's form, and tucked the hems meticulously under his arms. "The other truth is, I'm not the man you think I am. But everything _he_ did, every memory, every moment – I carry it inside me. I know every thought he ever had about you, for instance." Steve's callous thumb erased the wet trails on Tony's cheeks. "He loved you. And he admired you, even when you fought. All those times you thought you outsmarted him? Those times you thought you beat him? He had you, every single time. He could've beaten you, and he chose instead to go easy on you. _To spare you_."

No matter how many times Steve wiped the tears away, they wouldn't stop flowing, and Steve gave up, too. He braced the edge of the bed, and for the fleetest moment, Tony hoped Steve would suddenly break into the smile as warm as a thousand suns, and cheer "April's Fool!" and then the Avengers would come pouring through that door –

"I want you to see this, Tony. I am going to destroy _everything_ you ever built. I am going to tear down these institutions that you've used to give yourselves power. From the ashes of corruption we – HYDRA – are going to build something better."

Tony couldn't stop the sobbing. He choked, and he twitched, but he was utterly spent. Steve leaned into him again, and his lips moved as the words stream forth, "Hail… HYDRA."

When Steve left, Tony cried openly again into his pillow.


	3. Chapter 3

Day 2

Maybe six hours had passed by now. Maybe twelve. Time was meaningless in a room that came alight with a twitch of his arm, and went dark again if he lay still long enough. Night and day, night and day in a span of thirty minutes. Or two hours. He couldn't tell. The next time the light came on, Tony hadn't moved, so he craned his neck to the door.

Steve was there again. This time, he bore gifts.

"I brought you food. You must be starving."

He had only a bowl, but Tony didn't resent it. His stomach hadn't been used in so long he was starving, minus the appetite. A different kind of torture in which salvation was not possible. Tony sat up, and Steve sat next to him on the vacated spot. He smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

"I want only the best for you, Tony, but I must apologise for the lacklustre interior. We don't want to take any risks. If you could build Iron Man from a box of scraps, who knows what you could do with a table?" Steve held the bowl under Tony's nose, and coaxed him to take the spoon. "It's porridge. Easy on the digestion."

Tony didn't take the spoon and sat there for five whole minutes, and for those five whole minutes Steve held the bowl up patiently, the wan smile a constant on his lips. It unnerved Tony enough that he acquiesced, and pinched the surface of the porridge with his spoon. It was mercifully bland, and he swallowed the mouthful with great difficulty. He suspected Steve wouldn't have minded if he threw up on the spot, but he forced it down, and went back for a second dig. By the fifth, his spoon shook so hard Steve stilled him by the wrist, and wordlessly took it over.

"They wanted to keep you on IV," Steve said as he brought it to hover before Tony's mouth, "but I know how much you hated those tubes." Again, Tony ignored it, and Steve held it there. "I was worried when I found you in your facility. You were in a medically induced coma for an uncomfortably long time. I was afraid that I came too late." He sighed. "You were right about the Cube, Tony."

And the slightest frown betrayed his nonchalance. His mouth parted in surprise – he hadn't heard of the Cosmic Cube in quite a while – and Steve jammed the spoon between his lips, forcing the metal against his tongue and shovelling the porridge down his throat.

"Just like you always did," Steve returned to scoop for more as Tony hacked into his sleeves, "You figured the Cube out. You learned that each shard has an independent charge, some kind of residual energy base. With the single one that you had, you wished you were made whole again. Didn't work out for you, but _now,_ Tony," Steve brought the spoon to Tony's chin again, "I have the Cube in its entirety _in_ me. I made your wish come true. I brought you back."

Tony ate the porridge without protest, by the spoonful until he felt sick to the stomach, but he made damn sure he polished the bowl. He needed the sustenance, the strength to _fight back._

"I almost lost you, Tony. I'm glad I didn't."

A lump rose in his throat, but he kept swallowing. Pushed the last of his porridge through it. Steve cradled the empty bowl in his lap and for whatever reasons, decided to wink twice at the ceiling. The effect was instantaneous. The room dimmed and across them, a series of images was displayed on the far wall, dated December 28, 2016.

So, the day he died then?

"You have close to a year's worth of catching up to do." Tony gasped, and his fingers fisted around his blanket. Steve's smirk grew wider. "I've specially compiled these information for you. Digital articles, interview transcripts, satellite images, translations from international coverages. I know you'd like to search for these yourself, but I hope you'll understand why I can't have you access the Internet unsupervised. Not yet."

He'd been asleep for _close to a year_? Sane doctors wouldn't allow that. A medically induced coma typically lasted a few days up to two weeks – even a _month_ was already pushing it. _Steve_ wouldn't allow it. Steve wouldn't – why didn't Steve wake him up? He gave Steve the SOP, all the information he would need to jumpstart this body – _he trusted Steve_ –

"Watch and learn what HYDRA had done for the people while you were… indisposed." Steve pat him genially on his back like he always did, and left the room.

The words splayed over his retina like black paint:

 _HYDRA reinstates death penalty in all fifty states… reduces inmate population by a quarter… surplus of prison budget is reinvested into agriculture…_

 _HYDRA polices America's media to manage public disdains…_

 _HYDRA usurps Stark Industries and appropriates the energy division into R and D specifically for national weaponry –_

… _plans for sovereign nations to specialise in particular industries, to streamline resources and build a cohesive global community –_

… _annihilation of capitalism –_

Even when the videos had long ended, Tony sat on his bed, as still as death, wondering when the nightmare would finally end.


	4. Chapter 4

Day 5 (First Hour)

Every day after that, Steve would visit with the same bowl of tasteless porridge, three times a day. Tony had started calculating. Based on how much time had lapsed between one meal and the next, he was certain Steve would come in soon with dinner. The delay between dinner and the next would always be the longest. Delays between breakfast and lunch, then lunch and dinner were evenly spaced. He would bet on the HYDRA Supreme's life that Steve would poke his traitorous head through that door with his dinner in three, two –

And there Steve was. Accurate to the imaginary minute hand.

"How are you, Tony?"

Steve did that always, too. He would announce his arrival with a curt click of the door and some whimsical small talk. Today it was about his wellbeing, how nice. Yesterday it was about the thunderstorm. The day before Steve was sullen, and he was rougher with his feeding. Tony's bottom lip cut against his incisor – he bled – and Steve had the decency to look abashed.

"It's Friday," Steve said some more, and offered the first spoonful of porridge. His mood was cheerier, his voice lighter to the ears. "We don't get together often on Friday evenings. The kids would be out. Luke and Jessica with the baby."

They'd spent many, many Fridays together. Steve didn't go out often because of the crowd, and even if he did, it was mostly alone on his bike, incognito. Tony had his galas and crazy night-outs. But, sometimes, _many_ sometimes, they'd kick back and talk. Just talk. A man to a man, brother to brother.

"There will be a military demonstration in the desert next week. We can watch it remote from here. I'd like you to join us."

Tony stopped chewing the carrot bits when he realised what Steve was offering. A chance to get out of this heck of a room, for sure – but, Steve had been most wary when it came to dealing with Tony Stark. Five days in and his toothbrush was still chained to the wall. They wouldn't allow him the newspapers, fearing he would turn it into the next coming of smart artillery. Having a chance to explore beyond this cell, what gave?

"Why?" Tony rasped, and Steve too was astounded. This was his first word to Steve since he went full-on HYDRA. "Why would you want me there?"

"… I thought you would like to see what we did with your science. It doesn't compare to your Sol Hammer, of course, but I think you'll be proud of what we had achieved."

Bullshit. Tony accepted another spoonful of porridge, and said no more. The cogs and gears in his brain were slowly turning.

"Next week? When?"

"You'll see. I'll come and get you."

"In how many days?"

"… It doesn't matter, does it?"

"It's my fifth day here." Steve stopped stirring the porridge, his face having gone slack. "Since I woke up. This," Tony looked piercingly at the bowl in Steve's lap, "is lunch."

"… Impressive. I made sure to remove traces of time in this room."

Of course Steve did. Tony knew the methods. He'd been worked over enough times in the past to save himself from the effects. Once again, Steve underestimated how resilient a Stark was. That would become his undoing.

"You've improved much quicker than I expected."

"You could've killed me," Tony cut in swiftly. The thought often played on his mind. "There wasn't a Plan B if you did. I gave you the means to restart my body. Clearly you didn't bother with it. What do you want from me?"

Steve sighed, and planted the bowl of porridge in Tony's hands. It was still too heavy for him to manage, and his fingers trembled with the effort. "You have precedents, Tony. I remember the first Civil War. _You don't,_ and that's a problem. You always squirrel out of the toughest times, somehow. It could be a memory wipe, the Extremis, an entire covert organisation at your heel – I choose to err on the side of caution this time. This is my highest form of compliment, Tony. You _are_ a dangerous man to go up against." Steve nodded at the bowl again. "Eat. There's still a lot left."

Tony took the spoon with jittery fingers, and helped himself to more porridge. Satisfied, Steve continued, "Anyway, Carol was first to recover your body. Wouldn't let anyone near you, not even me. And I let her. Your near-death _destroyed_ her. Hank decided it was best to put you under until they could figure out what to do with you, so… I didn't bring up your express instructions."

Tony couldn't anymore. His thumb slipped and the spoon clattered on the floor. He flinched, and accidentally upended his bowl that the rest of the porridge pooled in his lap, and the bowl joined the mess near Steve's ankle. Steve didn't say a word, and Tony's heart began to beat in frenzy. His Steve would've dashed over to the kitchen sink for a towel to mop things up, assured him that _he got this_ and ordered Tony's helpful bots back to their charging stations.

"… What a waste," Steve muttered, and it frightened Tony dearly. "Let's get you cleaned up."

"No – no, I'm fine –"

Tony couldn't get away far enough fast enough. Steve grabbed him by the arm, and reeled him in with a single tug. He carried Tony towards the _other_ hole in the wall. It had no door, only a tarp to serve as a barrier between the main cell and the adjoined bathroom. Simplistically but thoughtfully designed, Steve set Tony in the tub, and busied himself with the shower head.

"Have you been in here, Tony? I don't think you're strong enough to walk in by yourself." Oh, he managed, all right. He crawled, and he rolled, and he dragged himself into this very tub, but he managed. "Strip."

Tony curled up against the corner of the tub and stared at Steve with wide open eyes.

"Take off your clothes. I'll wash you."


	5. Chapter 5

Day 5 (Second Hour)

Steve didn't wait for the water to warm up. The heater control lacked finesse. It was icy cold when it rained upon Tony, and he gasped at the burn. He curled into himself, shying away from what might as well be ice cubes poured over his head. And then, the heat, the steaming heat that rolled off his flesh, leaving him gasping for air under the blanket of humidity. So _heavy,_ he couldn't breathe –

"Are you still hungry?" Steve aimed the handheld showerhead a fraction to the left. "I bet there's still more in the kitchen."

"No. It's – I'm fine."

"You sure?"

Tony nodded once, and swiped water off his face. He had his knees pleated closely to his chest, and he sat still in his corner. The good boy he was, he ignored the way Steve worked the showerhead around and under him. Still, Steve was unhappy. Tony could see the bundle of muscle in Steve's jaws and neck twitch. Last he remembered, he was _ten_ when such triviality actually felt threatening – when Howard rumbled into the foyer with tequila and a mad gleam in his eyes. Colour him paranoid – Tony was used to reading every tick, every squint. Used to being _afraid_. So, when Steve raised his elbow, Tony flinched so hard his arm smacked against the edge of the tub, and he slipped –

"I got you," Steve cooed, one free hand already hooking under Tony's. "Sit up."

With great effort, Tony pushed himself up against the slippery porcelain. His wet skin wouldn't grip, but he didn't dare slip a second time, and his knees grew numb under the strain. Steve held him. He didn't let go. Tony wished he would.

"Give me your hands. Grab the sides of the tub."

Tony shook his head, and kept his fists curled about his ankles. He squatted in the tub, refusing to budge even under the strain of Steve's scowl.

"There's nothing you need to hide from me, Tony. This isn't the first time."

Colours rose to Tony's cheeks and temples so ferociously he felt giddy under the gushing water. The number of times they'd seen each other in nothing but thin surgical gowns. Or that one time Steve tore his combat suit and went on fighting with his butt crack in full display.

"Yes, just like that," Steve and his little encouragements as Tony lay himself out. "Now, hold still. We can make this quick." A soapy sponge dabbed at the crook of his neck, followed by a spray of lukewarm water to chase the suds away. Steve handled him just the way his body remembered.

 _And it still hurt._

Down and down Steve went, until the sponge probed him between his thighs. Tony had long looked away. He forced his eyes to glue on the fucking tarp and the blurry outline of his bed in the main cell. For whatever reasons, Steve chose to wash Tony's private regions with his own hands. He was meticulous. Thorough. Steve took his time, and Tony let him.

"You've been asleep a long time, Tony. For all of _eight months._ " Tony felt dirtier by the time Steve hung up the showerhead, and towelled him dry. "Up! Let's put you back to bed. You must be tired."

He wasn't.

Steve carried him through the hole in the wall and into the main cell like an invalid. He lay stretched on the mattress bare, his discarded clothes a sad pile somewhere in the bathroom. Steve must be thinking the same, because he began unbuttoning his own garment – the moss green vest that screamed of HYDRA – and eased Tony's arms into the sleeves.

Tony _did_ let that single tear fall, but he quickly thumbed it away before Steve see it. Fucking hell… what good would it do. Steve _always_ knew what he was doing. Read him like an open book.

The vest was warm with Steve's body heat. Smelled like Steve's shampoo, too.

"… I'll get you some pants later. I love you, Tony, but not enough to walk past my soldiers in my birthday suit."

Yeah? Tony – and the Hulk, good God – _had_ marched down the streets of Manhattan in front of Steve and the other Avengers in _their_ birthday suits because of one stupid bet. He _had_ escaped naked from a dragon in some God forsaken woods – that was a doozy – before Steve found him, and defended his honour. He had traded his life for Steve's in a heartbeat. Did CPR on Steve for an entire hour in the Red Zone. Kept his lips glued over Steve's as he breathed into Steve's disintegrating lungs.

Nah, he wasn't keeping scores.

"Where's Kobik?" Tony asked next, because it was either that, or more tears of self-pity. And it seemed to shock Steve to his core, because he immediately peeled back from the bed – from Tony – and studied him with suspicions.

"What about her?"

"Your chest," Tony nodded at Steve's bare torso. "You have the Cube inside you." Where an arc reactor would be if he still had it – over his heart. What had Steve done to his? "You assemble the shards, you assemble Kobik. Are you hiding her somewhere? Locking her up in a room like this? She's a kid, Steve."

Howard looked just like this when he was about to strike, too. The one thousand and one roiling curses and regrets in his headspace. At Tony's weakened state, one super-soldier punch to the side of his skull would've done him in. Tony promised not to defend himself.

Come _on_.

Steve's lips grew thinner, and he took a step back, and another, and another… until Tony was left alone again in the cell.

The problem was, Tony could read Steve like an open book, too. That made the gambit pile-up between them so much more tenuous and goddam frustrating, because there was no _end_ to the one-upping. All the times they'd fought. Had any of them ever come up on top? Ever? Every win Tony had over Steve was _that much closer_ to undoing him!

Tony smirked as the lights dimmed around him. HYDRA Steve still had one thing in common with his Steve. "You're a sucky liar, Cap," he huffed into his pillow.

 _Kobik wasn't around._ Steve did _not_ assemble the Cosmic Cube. Not completely. And that meant hope.

Steve did not return with new clothes that night.


	6. Chapter 6

Day 9

Three days whisked by, just like that. Tony clasped his hands on his knees, and relished the sting in his palms. Just like that. He still had on Steve's HYDRA Supreme vest. He'd taken to wearing it as his day clothes. He didn't sweat much, so he didn't smell, and the longer he had it on, the fainter Steve's scent got. But right now? Right now was dead midnight, and he was curled up against the porcelain throne relieving his stomach. Forget about the itch at the back of his throat. He wanted to marvel at the progress he made in the last seventy-two hours.

See, three days _ago_ was the last time he saw Steve, actually. He remembered waking up one night in Steve's vest – at the time it still carried a whiff of Steve's aftershave, shampoo, whatever – and he felt so, fucking, angry. Inexplicably, like someone shot him up with a dose of pissed-off and made him want to rip the flesh off Steve's face into the next incarnation of the Red Skull.

He remembered Steve touching him.

And he threw himself out of bed. His legs crumbled under his weight and by sheer dumb luck he avoided smashing his forehead into the blunt corner of his bedframe. This had got to be the _best_ time to ponder just how much more misery could a Stark take before he grew a pair and some iron in his backbone. There was no debate here, no second option. From rock bottom, the only way is up.

So, Tony clinched his buttery fingers around the cool metal surface, and heaved. Up.

 _The only way, is up._

The atrophy wasn't even that bad, he quickly realised. The things that he did to his body, the literal, scientific death-defying stunts that he pulled, was paying off. He healed at a dizzying rate! He walked around his bed, did a few laps – shakily at first, but now he could stand unassisted. He could walk to the bathroom instead of gliding over on his stomach. He only tripped like, five times in the process? No big deal, he cheered himself aloud one night as he wiped blood from a cut above his brow, where he'd accidentally hit against the sink.

Later that day, in place of Steve, nameless mooks began to rotate on a roster to bring him meals. Unlike Steve, they kept their distance. Didn't even _look_ him in the eye when he said hey. So, one presumably bright morning, he got ballsy.

"Lordy, I'm still kinda hungry. Steve said he had more of this where it comes from. A second helping, please?"

Tony started having more than one bowl of porridge per meal. He even had up to _three_ , and he felt good. He burnt the calories just pacing the expanse of the room, waiting for the next bolus of nutrients. The following day, he asked for the big mama kahuna. Some real, solid food. They brought him savoury crepes and juices. Here he was hankering for caffeine. Still, those withdrawal migraines didn't come, because his body had evolved beyond substance dependency.

And he could do push ups now! Steve Rogers used to goad him to keep up when they sparred. How could he ever compare to a two-hundred-pound animal who had no issues of curling helicopters while wearing washed out jeans and an Under Armour T two sizes too small?

Fuck Steve. Tony was done with the bridal carrying, the cooing, the cool sympathy and the general air of uselessness –

He bowed his head into the toilet bowl once more and retched the last ounce of semi-digested couscous. Yeah, this was a punishing self-imposed physiotherapy regimen. Still worth every second. He sometimes wondered if there were cameras installed in inconspicuous corners of the cell. Was Steve watching him regaining his strength by the hour?

That night, for the first time since his staycation in HYDRA's paradise, he had a dream. He saw Kobik again, and he tried talking to her. Some unimportant stuff like how was the weather, as people do. Or if Steve was treating her well, _if_ she was even here in one of the locked chambers, held captive just like him. If she could magic both of them out of this hellhole and be on their merry way home. Fix Steve _properly_ this time, since this version clearly lacked a couple of aspects – a fucking conscience, for starters. Then, she sort of waved her twiggy hand and visuals of the Avengers – so many, so _quickly_ they raced past him – swaddled him.

Stupid Clint Barton kept referring to him as "The Drunk". That was low, even for him –

Sam Wilson, too popped in his dreams, and the Avengers were all in Montana. Sam said he refused to play dress-up and join the Resistance, because what he was doing – smuggling six-hundred-and-forty-seven people across the border – was the better solution. Wait, _what Resistance?_ The Avengers were in Alaska, too. Where Ultron was – _wait,_ _back up, back up, back the hell up!_ – and Ultron was wearing Hank Pym's face and he had a shard of the Cosmic Cube. Son of a bitch used it to gather Steve's side and Tony'sside in a replica of the Avengers mansion, where home once was. Tony was seated in his usual chair, at the head of the long dining table, right across Steve.

A premonition?

But it felt so goddam real!

This dream had gone on long enough. He took the delicate desert spoon lying next to his dish and studied his reflection. He was _blue_ , and _virtual_ , and strutting around in an ancient iteration of his Iron Man suit.

Tony woke up drenched in cold sweat that Steve's vest was soaked through.


	7. Chapter 7

Day 10 (First Hour)

"Tony?"

Tony peeled his eyes open, a commendable feat given how tightly sealed they were with gunk. Absolutely disgusting, but that voice! When that voice summoned, he answered. Always did. So, he lifted his head from his pillow, as with the haze from his sight… and he found Steve seated next to him like old time. His blue eyes were alight in the dimness, and for a split second Tony's heart swelled with hope and joy and everything holy that this time, he would have his old friend back.

"Hey, you awake?"

"Steve, oh God, please –" Tony clutched Steve's forearm and squeezed. He had so many things to say, and one by one the word died in his throat as he looked at Steve, just looked, and searched for familiarity.

"Did they treat you well in my absence? I made sure they tend to your needs the best they could."

Tony's fingernails dug into Steve's flesh, and he quickly schooled his expression to neutral. "How was your week?"

"I was needed at the frontline. The weapon demonstration is on track, but… there's something else brewing on the East Coast. My fullest attention was required. I would've been here otherwise, Tony. You _are,_ after all, still recovering."

He pulled away from Steve, like the very flesh burned. "Tomorrow, right?"

"What's special about tomorrow, Tony?"

"The weapon demonstration. It's tomorrow, isn't it?"

"… Actually, today. It's past midnight."

Shit. He'd just calibrated his internal clock to dinner. That was some four hours ago. Obviously not anymore. Kobik and her hocus pocus had to ruin it for him. "Why are you here, Steve?"

"… I missed you."

Sure he did. "Tell me a story." It wasn't an unusual request. "You used to have so much to say. The heroic tales of Captain America." The hardened gleam in Steve's eyes wasn't going to stop him from running his mouth. "Tell me how you assembled the Cosmic Cube. Must be quite an adventure."

"Seems like my worries are unfounded, you're almost back to your old self. Get some sleep, Tony."

"Tell me about Riri Williams. Iron Heart, is that what she's calling herself these days?"

"Goodnight, Tony."

"Or my mother? How is she holding up? Does she visit me often?"

"Tony –"

He latched onto Steve. Fucking _please_! "Do you even _remember_? Steve, I beg you –"

"That's enough." His back slammed into the mattress – "You're raving –"

"Don't bullshit me! What did you to our friends, huh?" He clawed at Steve, but the skin didn't break. Angry welts were left in the wake of his fingers, frantically grappling for purchase. "I wasn't in coma for a year!" A fucking opening – Steve left his face unguarded and Tony took a swing. "I was out there, caught in another War against HYDRA, against _you!_ "

He expected Steve to rain him with punches and kicks, because that _never happened._ He foresaw many a broken bone and heart. Pain rendered worse by yet another bout of betrayal. Like they couldn't help it. How many times had they done this dance. Never learned to get better.

Still hurt. Every, single, time.

"Get off me –"

He'd trained his body to be strong again, but it had nothing against the might of a super-soldier. Steve pinned him down to the bed like he was made of foam, and from the tail of his eye, he glimpsed upon the silver shine of a collar. 

"Get _off_ –"

Steve's giant and stupidly warm hand clamped down on his throat. That how Steve would like to go? Empty the last pocket of air in his lungs, and watch the light go out in his eyes. Trapped in every manner conceivable, Tony pawed at Steve because his body's reflex dictated it. Ingrained sense of self-preservation was adamant to keep him alive, no matter how accepting he was to otherwise. Before the inevitable set in, a cool metal closed under his Adam's apple, and Steve's dead weight was off him.

He gasped like it was vacuum, and he curled to his side, only to be wrenched viciously back to the bed.

"Look at you, Tony. I didn't wish it to be this way. You, tethered to a post like an animal." There was a chain, alright. Whatever happened to "no frills" for fear of him building a murderous, sentient nunchaku from this? "Adamantium, Tony. So, don't bother. You don't have the tools."

He could twirl the chain around Steve's neck and pull. Dislocate the spine, if he was merciful.

"You are my _guest_ here. Can't you see? I'm trying to keep you safe. You're under my direct protection. Woe befalls any who dare to lift a finger on you, _I promise you_. But, my patience is limited, do you understand?"

Steve shook his head in mocked despair, and left. Even as Tony watched that broad shoulders and back slip past the door, his memories patched. Became less spacey. As he reanalysed each and every figment, his fingers fiddled with the smooth surface of the chain. Him recalling this much of the past wasn't in Steve's calculation. He _guaranteed_ it. He tugged at the chain, and it clinked lightly against the metal bedframe. Steve didn't restore him whole because Steve didn't _know_ this part of his life. What he did underground, leading a crusade against HYDRA's perverse ideals.

Steve hadn't been part of his life in a year. Not in the way that mattered. Funnily enough, he didn't remember fighting Steve. Maybe, Steve was sorry that they did, too, and ignored the fact when he wished upon the Cube.

The chain clinked some more, and Tony figured it was long enough to loop around _his_ own neck.


	8. Chapter 8

Day 10 (Second Hour)

When Steve reappeared the second time that day, he had breakfast in one hand, and a thicker chain in another. Why would he even bother? Tony sat up straighter on his bed. This thin one was already doing a fantastic job.

"Superfluous, don't you think?" he pointed at his collar as Steve freed him. Steve had company – two HYDRA PA or, whatever it was on the jobs ad that HYDRA placed. They stood by the door uncompassionately as Steve worked on Tony, substituting chains for chains. They were all dogs here. Steve's dogs.

"Eat."

Oatmeal. Plain. It would do. He swallowed oatmeal like they were delicious shredded cardboard and pushed the empty bowl back to Steve. Didn't want to keep them all waiting, did he? They were supposed to go out for a walk!

Should he roll on his back, let Steve pat his stomach?

… God, help him.

"Let's go." And Tony leapt to his feet at "go". Steve wasn't surprised at how steadily he bore his own weight. _Nobody_ was, but the guards were fingering their holsters. So, they came prepared. "The viewing deck has been prepared. I know you'll love it, Tony."

He loved viewing decks. The Avengers Tower had that feature, since they also doubled as Iron Man's landing pads. And Carol's, and Thor's, and Sam's. Other flyers' on the team. Point was, on Fourth of July's, he would take Steve out on one of the decks to watch the fireworks. They usually had companies because Captain America celebrating his hundred-something birthday in solitude? Blasphemy! They spent the night watching fireworks surrounded by friends, blood brothers and sisters. Sometimes, Tony would peel away from the gang, hang back. Let Steve mingled with the crowd.

Steve always found his way back to Tony's side.

"Let's go," Steve urged again. Tony felt a slight tug at his collar, where it was hooked to the leash in Steve's hand. "We'll be late. You two, clear the hallway."

Tony was in a better shape compared to the day he woke up to this Steve Rogers by his bed, thinking this was the same man he helped pluck from the icy depths of the English Channel. Steve must've thought the same, and then proceeded to _over_ estimate how much improvement Tony had actually made. He walked briskly, fingers still curled cruelly around the leash, so Tony kept up. He stumbled and fumbled in Steve's shadow, eyes always on the small of Steve's back and narrow waist.

He lost his breath not a minute later, lungs cramping up with the strain of strolling down a hallway – when the sun shone on him. He halted in his tracks completely, and Steve must've noticed. There was another impatient tug at his throat but Tony didn't care. He stood rooted before the floor-to- ceiling glass window and flung his gaze to the horizon. First time he'd seen the sun, and she was… glorious. She was. She got glaring and his retinas burned with it, yet he would've watched her until the rays blinded him.

Then, Steve came to join him. "It rained a lot couple of days back."

Glad he didn't miss much the last ten days he was stuck in a windowless cell.

"See that hangar at two o'clock? It's packed full of ammunition for our fourth gen smart artillery. We're shipping a quarter of that to our allies in the East. Diplomacy can only take us so far, Tony. By the way," Steve nods at the hangar's direction, and smiles. "This is all possible thanks to you. Your designs never cease to impress."

"I don't design weapons anymore."

"The Iron Man armour. But, is it really? Or is it an excuse for old habits?" Tony's throat seized, and Steve laughed. "I will make sure to compensate you for them. Now, come. The demonstration won't start until we reach the deck, and it's still quite a distance. Can you climb the stairs? It's only three floors up."

To hell with going up.

Tony lunges for the guard closest to him. What the fuck did he just steal from the holster he had no idea – didn't care either – but it had the general shape of a pistol, a trigger and a barrel, and that was good enough for him. He shot the guard in his buttocks, then aimed it at Steve.

So sorry, so sorry –

He shot at Steve – two rounds. He couldn't process that, and by the next heartbeat he fired at the remaining guard. He didn't think – he dashed through the fire escape, and before he could descend the second flight of steps, bright white light ignited before his eyes. A fucking flashback – _seriously, now?_ – in which Steve was about to decapitate him with the shield for real, and he made that hollow promise.

" _I wanted to save you so badly. Because I wanted to be to you what you always were to me. My hero."_

So sorry he kept letting Steve down.

He'd killed Steve once. Twice? Steve came back again and again. Even in death, he still had Steve's blood in his hands. He remembered, he called for the Clean Slate Protocol. He set some megatons of bombs on Steve's HYDRA ass back at the Resistance's base, didn't he? Wanted to die with Steve. Again.

Again, and again –

Tony crumpled to the ground, a hot prickle budding in his stomach. He was on his third landing. The signage said he was one floor away from first. He dragged himself forward, ignoring the inexplicable mounting pain until the very wall of his stomach fell apart in tatters. He wrapped his left arm around his middle and crawled. He got so used to crawling.

Escape. Run!

A pair of beefy arms forced him up to his knees. By now, the buzz in his mind's eye had gotten so bad he didn't register somebody speaking to him. A hand crept up the back of his head, and pulled.

"Painful, isn't it?"

Tony cracked his eyes a fraction, and watched Steve sneering down on him. He wanted to ask if Steve was OK, if the bullets were hurting Steve and he _didn't mean to_ – but all he managed was a wrangled moan as the sear in his stomach deepened.

"Nanomachines programmed to release nociceptor-stimulating chemicals. They've invaded the mucosae of your stomach and gut. Not a pleasant experience, I'd imagined. I fed you them myself. Spiked your porridge with them."

"Herr Rogers," an unrecognisable voice greeted, and Steve turned towards the newcomer. "It's ready."

"Thank you. Change of plans, Tony." Steve grabbed him by the collar and heaved. "We're not watching the demonstration. We're going to the courtyard instead."


	9. Chapter 9

Day 10 (Third Hour)

Not one to brag, but Tony's possessions – tangible and not – were often in excess. The golden springboard he was born to – adopted to?– did him a real solid in amassing his own wealth in adulthood. Call him a lucky dipshit – _he earned them._ Worked hard. Bled for them. And he indulged, oh God he did, but Steve knew that under all the glory and glitter, there was nothing much.

He tried drinking himself to death, once upon a time. What did that say about his state of mind and quality of life?

With this much power and influence, his impact factor was orders of magnitude larger than it would be if he were an unremarkable mechanic. When he screwed up, it was devastating. And he screwed up _a lot._ Often enough that every time it happened, and his friends kept coming back – _Steve_ kept coming back – he wondered if he'd accidentally hit them in the head when they weren't looking, because the extent of selective amnesia that they had? It was as if Civil War didn't happen, dammit. Steve died, Steve came back, Steve became SHIELD big cheese, Steve abolished the SHRA, and _Tony_ remained Steve's most important friend! Fine. So, Steve had a heart of gold, what was new? Then, that asshat Parker Robbins stole the Gems, and Steve found out about them _and_ the Illuminati. After all the I-can't-believe-you and exclamations of disappointment enough to last him two more lifetimes, Steve _didn't_ boot Tony off the Avengers after promising he would. No more special treatment, Tony remembered Steve saying that, and the heartache that tore through him. Yet again, he remained Steve's most treasured friend.

Steve always forgave him. Making mistakes, after all, was proof that he was still _trying._ Not this time, though. Not this time.

The tip of Tony's toes dragged along the floor as HYDRA goons held him up by his arms and manoeuvred him along signage-less hallways, through countless doors that looked identical. The last one he was dragged through seemed to glow around the edges. Sunlight, Tony smirked. He was going outside.

And he gulped fresh air in shamelessly huge mouthfuls. The air tasted so sweet in the summer. He greeted the sun and the blue, blue sky with a pronounced slump in his posture. He was worn to the marrow. Forgive him for having what felt like his first marathon since he retook his mortal form. Then, somebody with little patience shoved him roughly in the back, non-verbal for walk-or-else. He would if he could… so Steve took charge. Looped the leash twice around his knuckles and marched right to the centre of the courtyard. Tony either walk, or be hauled by the neck to wherever Steve wanted him to be. So, he obeyed. The riot in his stomach had faded into vagueness, and his nausea had subsided. Small mercies. The fresh air was good for him.

Still, a barren courtyard this was. No grass and moist earth beneath his feet. Only carpets of sand that stretched on forever. Steve led him to a vertical wooden pole that stuck out of the ground to serve ominous purposes, and promptly kicked him in the knees. As he fell, gruff hands took his and locked them around the pole. Jesus. Fucking pole smelled horrible, like a mixture of piss and rust.

"One!"

One became two, and three, and four –

Even when viscous wetness trailed down his tailbone, and he knees gave way he was more curled up on the side of his butt, the shock was great enough that the pain didn't fully register. His wrists were cut as he jerked in his cuffs. Evasion was futile. Whatever they used to hurt him was thin, and hot against his torn open flesh.

And the pain hit him like a steamroller on hot tar.

Sixteen blurred into seventeen, twenty-one…

He knew what he sounded. He was slobbering all over himself, made a complete mess of himself in the courtyard. Steve was still standing next to him, a clean distance away where the whip could not reach.

Twenty-three…

His body was a patch of blisters.

"Twenty-five!"

That one was vicious enough that the whole length of the whip blazed across the entirety of his back, before it was retracted so quickly his own body withdrew with the force.

"See, Tony?" Steve came to squat before him. "It doesn't pay to antagonise HYDRA. I know you're slowly getting back your memories… you can't fool me on that front. I don't know if you remember Rick Jones? By my calculations, he must've given _you_ the files he stole from us. I don't blame him. He fought for what he believed was right, to the bitter end. And I had no choice but to do what I _knew_ was right. Tony," Steve cupped him lightly by his cheek, a thumb brushing away stray tears of agony. "Forgive me. The people must be thought a lesson: not to cross HYDRA so lightly. Rick faced the firing squad in this very courtyard –"

No, no, _no_ –

"Tied to this pole."

It was Rick's blood soaking the pole and the sand beneath Tony's knees, already stained dark brown with his own.

"Your wounds are nasty. We need to disinfect them. Clean him up."

When they hosed him down with low-pressure lukewarm water jet, he blacked out to the echoes of his screams in the recesses of his own skull.


	10. Chapter 10

Day 11

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

The problem about going against Steve Rogers was the sheer improbability for anyone to ever come up on top, even if Steve was HYDRA's bitch. Tony woke up to a brain so cottony it took him one full minute to fully embrace the fact that he'd woken up. Still mortal. His physical form felt so stiff from anaesthesia – unless they whipped him so hard his nervous system was shot – for a split second he thought he was blue and see-through again.

This was real. This was all real.

He was flat on his stomach, facedown, with his head tilted to the side so he wouldn't suffocate. Because that would be too easy, and Steve probably decided he hadn't suffered enough. And the only reason he hadn't chocked himself on pillow stuffing was because _Steve_ was sitting next to his bed, in a plastic chair, his cold eyes boring into Tony's skull.

"Good morning," Steve greeted, and Tony did not even blink. "How are you feeling?" Mere rhetoric, certainly, so he shut his eyes, ignored Steve and willed himself back to sleep, only for an itch to creep up his throat and send him railing into a body-wrecking fit of coughs. Steve flew over with a glass of water and a straw, which Tony gratefully took a sip from. It could be spiked with whatever, his sluggish mind warned him, but honestly? He couldn't care any less. And _that,_ was scarier.

"Easy, Tony."

His back had been mummified, that much he could tell. His every twitch was accompanied by flesh and skin pulling in ways that made his scalp crawl. How extensive was his injury? The bandages covered the base of his neck to the top of his butt. Forget that – he was shaking with the chills, but Steve was stooping over him wearing a thin cotton shirt with a HYDRA logo sewn into his breast pocket. Since when did the cold not bother him anyway?

"Let me check your temperature." Steve's hand was already on Tony's forehead when he asked. He tutted and pulled a bottle of pills from his pocket. Look, Steve had precedents, so it was only natural for Tony to become skittish around unlabelled bottles. He also knew Steve would have no problem pinning him down and shoving things down his throat, so why resist? "You're having a fever, Tony. I sponged you whole night, do you remember? You mumbled in your sleep."

Another wave of iciness washed over him. A slip of the tongue informing HYDRA his subconscious was all Steve needed to win the War. Maybe buried unnaturally deep in the recesses of his not-fully-healed memory was a location of the rebels' hideout, or plans for counterattacks.

"What do you want with me, Steve?" he croaked, and Steve's eyes snapped to him, seemingly hanging onto every word that was spilling from his lips. "I have no use to you. Let me go, for old time sake?"

And Steve laughed. It sounded so foreign. "No use to me?" He popped two pills onto his palm, and shoved them under Tony's nose. Looked like innocuous aspirin, but Tony took them regardless. "Tony, I don't get you. Join me. Work with HYDRA. All the ideals that you used to champion, the things that you did during the War – I know not a day goes by without you _thinking_ it, ever since Ulysses showed up. It worked, Tony! You were right when you said the people – these… simpletons! – can't be trusted with their own minds! Look at what had become of the Avengers! A hollow shell of their former glory, because they can't be trusted to put aside their ego and selfish desires, that _we_ have to step in and set things right. And we are, Tony. One step at a time, we are undoing the corrupt institution – all that bull about 'liberty, justice for all'?"

"You don't mean that, Steve." He was fading, and it was either poor health, or a crushing realisation that Steve Rogers was beyond saving.

"For all the back and forth that we had, we keep coming back to this. This is how things always play out between us, Tony. It's natural selection. It's predestined!"

"It's one hell of a mistake! You made sure I see the errors of my ways, and God, Steve, how many more are supposed to die before you craft your so-called perfect world? And you dare call us egoistical?"

Steve shifted his weight on his heels, and Tony flinched. That did it, he tore open something. Steve's eyes rolled over his back and lingered at one spot, and his features turned grim. "You're bleeding again, Tony. I never meant for this to happen."

"… Fuck you."

"I am not the enemy."

"You are when you took your friends' lives."

"And you didn't?" Fuck HYDRA. Fuck Steve. "You think this doesn't kill me?"

"You know what? If you want to kill me, you better do it right now. Because if I can't save you, I will stop you. And if that means taking you out, I will, Steve. I will. _That's a promise_. You and I never do tire of this dance, don't we?"

Steve straightened up and dusted his knees. They were done here. Steve was leaving. Tony hiked his body up on an elbow. "I know you all my life, Tony. You'll come around."

"No, _never_! You son of a –"

"Get some sleep. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Steve!"

And he screamed himself hoarse, threw tantrums in the confinement of his bed space. He swore and cursed and cried until there was nothing else to give, but a prayer, the perverse kind in which he hoped, he _wished_ that Steve would return to normal, and if the price was his own wretched life?

So be it.


	11. Chapter 11

Day 12

Tony remembered doing something amazing once. He played chess against Reed Richards on five concurrent boards, and checkmated five kings at once. Eh, no biggie. Reed called him the world's best multitasker. He'd take that. He was a lot more, too, but world's best multitasker had a nice ring to it. OK. He wore the badge proudly on his chest. His brain's brain – he must've operated like that, how else would this make sense? – was so adept at keeping track of time, that even now, even when he was hurting, it still wouldn't let him forget he'd been in captivity for twelve days. Twelve fucking days. And it was almost time for breakfast.

There was a scratching on the door. Must be Steve. Of course it would be Steve. Who else was there?

His eyes were watery, his nose stuck, his throat burned, and his back inflamed. His enhanced immune system would've fought off any infections, but something told him a broken heart was just as lethal. And a broken heart indeed that he was nursing, as he lay twisted on his stomach, his head pillowed by his own arms.

"Good morning, Tony."

He… was so lost in futility. To the point that Steve didn't bother closing the door properly, that even with it left ajar, Tony had not the will to flee. One question… just one thing he needed to know, to hear direct from Steve.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

To teach him a lesson? To exact revenge?

"I told you. I'm convinced that one day, you'll come around and join us. Help us make the world a better place." Steve lowered a bowl of porridge – they were back to porridge? – in his lap, as he took a seat at the edge of Tony's bed. "You know me. I'm a patient man. Until that day happens, I'll keep you safe, here. Just like old times."

This was _nothing_ like old times.

"Just you and me."

And he couldn't bear it. Tony curled into himself, his arms wrapping around his body. The tears flowed freely, even when he believed he had none to weep. Steve, with his glorious upper body strength, flipped Tony over and reeled him into a hug. An embrace – _just like old time_ – him half-slouching in Steve's lap, his back against Steve's steadfast chest.

Steve's heartbeat had by far been the loudest, the steadiest he ever heard. He found solace in them. Just listening. He would march himself to the beat of Steve's beating heart, _to death_ , with his head held high and a fucking smile on his face.

"I'm here, Tony. Don't cry."

He shook harder, and Steve drew his arms around Tony, careful not to jar the mess that was his back. The more Steve cooed into his ear, spoke comforting vocab that meant nothing to him, the achier he felt. Right here, in his chest, his lungs so compressed and –

Please.

"Don't be like this, Tony. Everything will be alright. Your girl, Riri Williams? She's doing fabulous as Iron Heart – is that what she calls herself these days? She takes good care of her mother, comes home as often as she can for dinner. She lies when she can't make it, but… which fifteen-year-old doesn't, hmm?"

"Steve," Tony chokes, "Please. Don't –"

" _Your_ mother is taking great care of the company. Your CEO, Miss Watson is doing a hell of a job on the management side. Your company's stock price has never been this high _in your absence_! Tony, you found yourself a squad of fantastic women, truly remarkable –"

"Steve, I beg you." He jerked away and scooted closer to Steve's face. He pawed the front of Steve's shirt and rested his forehead against those sharp collarbones. "Leave them out of this. Riri, she's just a kid! My mother, I just – please. Oh God." His snot was soaking through Steve's shirt. "Don't. Please. You have me here. I swear I won't – I'll stay. In exchange. _Don't I mean anything to you_?"

"… What have you become, Tony? I remember you prideful. So confident of your views on the world – what's in store for the present and future. Your objectivity has always been your strength. But now?" Tony bit back a gasp when Steve closed a hand over the small of his back. "I'm… petty, Tony. I just realised that. I want _you_ to watch how HYDRA cleanses this planet. I want to gloat. You are where I've always wanted you to be. Here. With me."

The bluish glow in Steve's chest was visible through his tear-soaked HYDRA shirt. Tony fisted the wet spot, and Steve held him. So blue… its light burnt into his retinas, and he wished. It was what the Cosmic Cube do, right? Grant wishes. So listen up, stupid Cube. Bring Steve Rogers back, the Captain Spangled Banner that he – that _everyone_ – had come to love from the fucking get-go. Bring that man back. If that wasn't possible, then God help him, when Tony Stark fell asleep tonight, don't wake him up for tomorrow.


	12. Chapter 12

Day 13

"Get him out of there, Sam!"

Get who out of where – who in pluperfect hell was _shouting_?

"Jesus Christ, can we get the medic over? This looks bad."

Everything looked bad, what, had they been walking around with their eyes closed? HYDRA reigned supreme, tell him which one word in that sentence actually meant good news.

"Stark? Hey, can you hear me? Dammit, man, don't you heal like Logan these days?"

No… emphasis on no. Where did that come from? See what happened if he left those people alone? Talked junk science like they were real. Next thing he knew they'd try stabbing him in the neck just to prove a point.

"Tony, hey, buddy. It's me."

"… Rhodey?"

The blurred figure before him blanched, but he quickly schooled his expression to one of joy. He was smiling. Steve smiled, too, but it never looked happy.

"It's Sam. Sam Wilson. I got you, alright? Hang on."

Sam. Sam Wilson. Was here, cradling him like he was made of shattered glass held together by Play-Doh.

"Where's Steve?"

"Barnes' taking care of him."

Taking care of Steve meant… killing him?

"Don't."

"You remember Barf? Yeah, well he barfed out another shard. I don't know how that happened, to be honest, because the last shard was supposed to be with Steve –"

What last shard? Wasn't the Cosmic Cube assembled and residing in Steve's chest?

"We figured Steve didn't want to risk it. He knew about your theory, about how assembling the Cube would bring Kobik back. With ninety-nine percent of the Cube, he's powerful as hell already, so why chance a power struggle with a sentient cosmic entity with the guile of a child, right? We figured – I know, bear with me – he would hide the last shard somewhere safe, so we couldn't get to it. And it was going swell for Steve until last night. Like I said, Barf barfed out one more, and here we are."

… Tony did make a wish last night.

"It's over, Tony. I'm getting you out of here."

"Steve?"

"Steve's gone, Tony. He's past saving!"

Then, the ceiling shook and dust snowed upon them. Sam instinctively rolled over Tony, bracketing the broken body with his own. "Can you walk?" Sam shouted over the din of explosion traced to several floors above. Tony shook his head, and clutched onto Sam's shoulders. "OK, hold on tight. We're flying. Bet you've missed that."

He missed a friendly face.

Sam hooked his arms under Tony and deployed his wings. They shot out of a hole in the wall where he must've flown through the first place. It was dizzying, exhilarating, that freedom was within his grasp once more. He was soaring, and the wind whizzed past him as they cut through it. His knuckles were white against Sam's vest, and the barest hint of a smirk crept on his lips.

"Oh, my God. Is my double vision acting up, or are there two Steve Rogers duking it out on the plains?"

Tony followed Sam's line of sight and twisted his neck to get a better view. There was a ring of Avengers, standing around doing nothing, which was an odd sighting on its own. By now someone would've passed around the beer or crackers. Some tasteless fisticuffs held their attention, one between _Steve and Steve_ – and even from this high up, Tony knew immediately he'd gotten his best friend back.

"… How?"

"Lang took the shard, went Tic Tac and stuck it in Steve's heart where the rest of the Cube was. It's all messed up, man. I thought they were all drunk on their asses when they proposed that, but what do we have left to lose?"

He wanted to watch his Steve emerge victorious. Celebrate the triumph of good over evil. Hug him. Tell him he was sorry, for nothing and everything.

"Tony?"

After all was said and done, they could go home together. They would put this all behind them, but the road of recovery would be arduous. Steve wouldn't forgive himself. Didn't matter that he played no part in what his douchebag lookalike had done in his stead, Steve would take it all upon himself. All the mistakes, the sins.

"Get the medic ready, dammit! I don't know – signs of trauma and possibly torture, vitals are steady last I checked, but he's not lucid all the time. I know there are other casualties to tend to, but this is Tony fucking Stark, for God's sake! In the flesh! Yes, literally! Well, that's for _you_ to find out, right? He's in this form when I reached!"

There was whooping. A lot of _happy_ whooping. A foregone conclusion. He had faith. _He believed_!

"Let me see him."

"Tony, we have to get you to a hospital, _right now_ –"

"I _need_ to. _Please_!"

The sudden drop in altitude knocked him out for a good two to three seconds, and he vaguely felt Sam's arms tensing under him. Yet, they didn't change trajectory. Sam could've nailed a softer landing, but he could forgive that. On top of gushing adrenaline and a dying desire to be reunited with a beloved brother?

Steve's face crumbled when he saw Tony.

The very earth moved with Steve's every step, as Sam lay Tony down on the sandy terrain. The ring of Avengers broke up as they hurried over – thank you for the concern, but really – and Tony held on to the last vestiges of consciousness. He'd cried again. Steve's cheeks, too were streaked with tears. His chest a solid slab of strong muscle and bones and blood – and his eyes, his blue, blue eyes, rake over the fallen Avenger.

"Tony. _Tony._ What have I done?"

"… Not you, Steve."

"I'm so, so, sorry."

"… I can't look that bad."

Steve chuckled wetly, and opened his arms. He stayed, and searched Tony's features for a sign. For forgiveness? _Just like old time._

"I missed you, Steve," he whispered, and Steve's warmth wrapped around him.

Just like old time.


End file.
